Then downwards from the steep hill's edge,
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed;
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none

-Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

WORDSWORTH.

CVI

MIDNIGHT.

'Twas dead of night, when weary

bodies close

Their eyes in balmy sleep and soft repose;

The winds no longer whisper through the woods,
Nor murmuring tides disturb the gentle floods.

The stars in silent order moved around,

And peace, with downy wings, was brooding on the ground. The flocks and herds, and party-coloured fowl,

Which haunt the woods, or swim the reedy pool,

Stretched on the quiet earth securely lay,

Forgetting the past labours of the day.

CVII

MORNING.

See, the day begins to break,
And the light shoots like a streak
Of subtle fire; the wind blows cold,
While the morning doth unfold;
Now the birds begin to rouse,
And the squirrel from the boughs
Leaps, to get him nuts and fruit;

The early lark, that erst was mute,
Carols to the rising day

Many a note and many a lay.

DRYDEN.

FLETCHER.

CVIII

SONG.

Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet birds' throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall we see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves to live in the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

SHAKESPEARE.

CIX

THE CHILD'S WISH IN JUNE.

Mother, mother, the winds are at play;
Prithee let me be idle to-day.

Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie

Languidly under the bright blue sky

See how slowly the streamlet glides;
Look how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.

Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun,
And the flies go about him one by one;
And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace,
Without ever thinking of washing her face.

There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree,
But very lazily flieth he;

And he sits and twitters a gentle note,
That scarcely ruffles his little throat.

You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear
How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near;
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.

I wish, oh I wish I were yonder cloud,
That sails about with its misty shroud;
Books and work no more I should see,
But I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee!

MRS. GILMAN.

T

CX

THE GRASSHOPPER.

Happy insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
Thou dost drink, and dance and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee,
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice:
Man for thee does sow and plough;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently enjoy,
Nor does thy luxury destroy :

Thee, country hinds with gladness hear,

Prophet of the ripened year!

To thee, of all things upon earth,

Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou

Dost neither age nor winter know;

But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,

Sated with thy summer feast

Thou retir'st to endless rest.

COWLEY.